Dying to Retire by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page B

but she’ll need help setting up. I’m going over there now.”
    “Okay, see you both later,” Helen said, and she and Amelia crossed the street and started up the hill toward her beauty parlor.
    “Would you like my help, too?” I offered.
    “Oh, no, no,” Minnie said. “You’re a guest. Bring your friends by in about an hour or so and we’ll feed you.” She walked off toward Foreverglades.
    The crowd in front of the chapel had dispersed. My friends were nowhere in sight. But the vista of Biscayne Bay from this vantage point was captivating. The day was clear and the sun shot little sparks of light off the choppy water. I dug my new sunglasses out of my bag and put them on. Portia had loved this view. She had been fighting hard to keep it so everyone in Foreverglades could see the water, walk along the shore, and enjoy the beauty of nature. How sad that what is called “progress” by some was going to spoil it for others. Detective Shippee had characterized Portia as a “feisty lady.” Had her heart given out because of her determination to keep this beautiful view unblocked?

Chapter Five
    I originally intended to follow Minnie back to Foreverglades, but when I reached the intersection at the base of the hill, I gave in to the lure of the water, and set my steps toward the shore. Tall grasses lined one side of a concrete sidewalk that wound its way to the bay alongside an unpaved road, which ended in a small, pebble-strewn parking lot. An L-shaped dock jutting into the water was anchored to concrete slabs sunk into the mud. Two dozen boats were tied up to the dock. An aluminum dinghy, its lines looped around a piling, was available for owners of boats moored offshore to reach their vessels.
    At the head of the dock, down a short flight of steps, a narrow boardwalk veered off to the left, back in the direction of Foreverglades. Sand had been dumped in a long crescent-shaped section to create a man-made beach, but the thick vegetation had not been kept in check, and tendrils of green crept under the low boardwalk as though trying to reclaim the land. Farther down, the sand ended, palm trees rose from the thick grass, and the boardwalk, with a waist-high railing, curved out over the water, ending in a circular gazebo. A large white sign had been braced in the damp earth about ten yards off the boardwalk. On it was the message: SITE OF THE FUTURE WAINSCOTT TOWERS, A NEW GATED COMMUNITY. TWENTY-ONE-STORY BUILDINGS, FEATURING RESIDENCES OF DISTINCTION. Someone had circled Wainscott’s name with red spray paint and scrawled Liar above it, the thick paint dripping down from the letters like blood.
    Beyond the sign, I could see the pink buildings of Foreverglades, and sympathized with their tenants’ plight. The construction would not only block their view and cut them off from the waterfront, but it was bound to destroy the peaceful existence they currently enjoyed. Residents of three high-rise buildings would probably double the local population. They would crowd the shops, create traffic congestion with their cars, and overwhelm the small beach and the boardwalk on which I stood. I thought of Portia, and how much she loved the place she had found for herself in Florida. Change is difficult for many of us, but for people who have spent years planning for their retirement and carefully selected the environment they wanted, it’s harder still to have threats made against their long-anticipated lifestyle.
    Deep in contemplation, I meandered down the rough planks of the boardwalk—the footwear I’d worn for the funeral was not conducive to walking in the sand—and made my way toward the gazebo. As I approached the weathered wooden structure, I realized I wasn’t alone. A figure stepped away from the railing he’d been leaning over. At first I thought he was holding a fishing rod, but then I realized it was just a long stick he’d been playing with in the water.
    “What are you looking at?” I